


more holy than the blood of the martyr

by Prinzenhasserin



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Canon Compliant, Childhood, Gen, Worldbuilding, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 17:25:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15999890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/pseuds/Prinzenhasserin
Summary: Csethiro learns to write when she's 5. She learns the same way her relatives do, but if her father had to choose, he probably would have preferred her illiterate.





	more holy than the blood of the martyr

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trismegistus (Lebateleur)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lebateleur/gifts).



The crushed charcoal looked dull and ugly on the desk in front of her. Csethiro dabbed a bit of dust on her fingers and dragged her thumb against it. The charcoal was still a bit grainy—the ensuing ink would be peppered with dots rather than a smooth glide of ink.

Her father would despise an ink that unprofessional. He would decry it the work of an amateur, or worse, a incompetent buffoon, never mind that this was the only type of ink she could easily get—and that it was far more permanent than the iron gall ink that  _he_  preferred.

She pressed the charcoal into her sieve to break down the grains into finer powder, then mixed in the glue to form a uniform paste. It would've been easier to request some from the vilicus, but her father had set her a limit on goods—books and especially ink—since he was of the opinion that both rotted her mind and made her more irrational. The thing making her irrational, was of course his presumption upon her person. There was really nothing she could do about that, though.

Carefully, she added the water, and tried not to fume about her father and his edicts, and who did he think he was taking away her sword just because she had bested her brother, and why was it always Csethiro who needed to sit quietly in her room and think? If he had known she had secreted away her writing supplies he would have confiscated them, too.

She tested the consistency with her stirring picket— it was viscous, so she added a bit more water, and then filled her small ink pot with the fruits of her labour. 

“The pen is mightier than the sword,” her father had kept telling her when she was younger, and so Csethiro Ceredin returned to her seat at the writing desk to sigh deeply and continue writing out her letters. She’d much rather be out and about with the duelling class than in the stuffy study with her father.

But she had disobeyed—had left her tutor behind when exploring the palace and had acquired a sword through dubious means (by punching Sir Tethimar in the face, and waiting until he had left for the Healer to take his.)

Her father was prone to repeat himself and provide her with sterner and sterner lectures, but this time he sighed and showed her the parchment—bleached creamy white, the most expensive kind. Csethiro had only used it once, to recreate a zeppelin figure that Veredo had shown her, which one of her brothers had claimed as his own. Csethiro had duelled him for her honour, of course, but her brother had actual tutors for his sword fighting, whereas Csethiro was only allowed to practise the pen.

Now, Csethiro was learning to write in the inner circle of the palace, and her teacher kept reminding her to curl her letters, to use a more feminine hand, not the chicken scratch that took after her father's handwriting. Csethiro supposed she should be grateful for not getting the full brunt of her disapproval, the way some of her fellow pupils were. At least she was allowed to write with the hand that came most fluid to her, not to mention how grateful Csethiro should be for getting to write at all. There were plenty of girls who didn’t get that much, first among them the servant girls in the kitchen. Whenever she was down there to fetch honeybuns for Vedero or her mother, they were the ones peeling potatoes, or foraging, or getting something from one end of the castle to the other. Nothing important, of course, only the lace one of the princesses demanded, or the shoes someone needed to fix—the important work was left for the couriers.

"A more delicate hand, if thou pleases," her teacher repeated, studying her hand in detail. Her teacher frowned, once again, but her father had protested when Csethiro came home crying because she didn't like to use the curvy letters of the modern script. Her father was a traditionalist in all things, and sometimes that favoured her. "The writing of thy hand will be the first thing thy future spouse will see, and thou must not present a manly hand." Her teacher was of the opinion that the very script Csethiro used was indelicate and coarse. Uncouth.

Csethiro continued to write in the hand her father thought her, the way the tutors of her brothers, the tutors of her cousins, the tutors of Vedero Drazhin taught them. Archaic scripts for an archaic hand, Csethiro thought, and continued to like the way the script represented her: headstrong, determined, part of the traditions of her family. But she continued getting taught with the gaggle of other girls, learned to write primarily letters and love poetry, readable by most modern secretaries as if they are not allowed to hide behind the obscurity of words anymore.

And yet, writing letters was useful. Vedero, who needed to hide behind walls and in far-off rooms could receive them even when she was away. Csethiro could talk with her about sword lessons, the movement of the stars and the gossip of court without needing to be in the same room as her. Writing letters meant that Csethiro could talk about her wishes and wants, and Vedero could talk about hers. Vedero was the one to teach her that the secretarial script her teacher was harping on about day-in, day-out, had its time and place. Vedero was the one who taught her how to loop pretty circles against each other in the interest of being understood and getting others to understand her.

Csethiro loved letters.Csethiro loved letters, because they meant talking to your friends even when they were miles away at the other end of the castle, or even further away at vacation homes or retreats. Csethiro only had to write a letter, and find a servant to deliver it, and then soon, she would get a letter back. It was almost as having a friend with you at all times, and paper was patient. Unlike everyone else.

When Csethiro was 9, she found out that her couriers were reading her letters. One of the ladies at court made a joke about it, and everyone laughed. And Csethiro fumed and didn't say anything, and wondered no more how her father had found out about the sword she had kept hidden in one of the alcoves and forbid her from going to the soldier's fields when he hadn't cared enough for other things--only this one had become rumour and gossip, and that was not how Csethiro should behave.

So Csethiro, who loved letter writing, went to her friend Vedero and said, "The scripts we're using," 

"Yes," Vedero said. As usual, she was focused on something else entirely. 

Csethiro had to repeat herself a few times before Vedero paid her any attention, and she could repeat her entire question, "The scripts we're using," she said, and Vedero listened attentively. "The couriers are reading them, aren't they?"

Vedero nodded, as if she'd already come to the same conclusion herself. As always, she knew everything. It was up to Csethiro, however, to make sure that what they knew had practical relevance to their lives. "It's always been that way," Vedero said.

Csethiro's ears were set to the front--that may be a fact of life for Vedero, but Csethiro had certainly never been warned by any of her female relations, maybe because a lot of them couldn't read themselves-- "That's no excuse," Csethiro said. "But that's easy enough to get around. How's your warrior's script? It will take them a while to decipher, at least."

Vedero let out a laugh, before she hid it between her fingers and her neutral set of ears. "Csethiro," she said and smiled. "We shall practise immediately."

Csethiro didn't stop there, of course. Csethiro learned how to hide her intent behind words, and hide her words with other words. She could obscure her intentions, and she could obscure her letters, and she learned how to use cyphers and codes—

and then came the day she needed to write the most important letters of them all: The one to her suitor, her future husband. She was ready.


End file.
